“You knew,” Mrs. Duggan says. “I hear things. But I’ll have my will with them, not yours or anyone’s.”
Lena is done; she’s paid her fee. She says, “You’ll have heard whether there’s gold out there or not, so.”
Mrs. Duggan nods, accepting the transaction. She blows out smoke and watches it curl against the windowpanes.
“In all my days,” she says, “I never once heard a whisper about any gold. People are saying aul’ Mick Feeney knew and kept it to himself, but there’s been times when Mick Feeney woulda given me anything he had in exchange for what he wanted offa me, and he never said a word about that. I’ve known every Feeney around for eighty year now, and if any one of them had a notion of any gold, I’ll ate this ashtray.” She puts out her cigarette, pressing down hard, and watches Lena. “I can’t tell you if there’s gold out there, but I can tell you no one ever thought there was, not till Johnny and his Englishman came in here talking big. What d’you think of that?”
“Anything outa Johnny Reddy’s mouth,” Lena says, “I’d be more surprised if it hadda turned out to be true.”
Mrs. Duggan snorts, acknowledging this. “Now you have it. What are you going to do with it?”
“I haven’t thought of that yet,” Lena says. “Nothing at all, maybe.”
“There’s going to be trouble,” Mrs. Duggan says, with slow, pleasurable anticipation. “I know you tried to tell me you don’t be planning ahead, but if I was you, I’d make an exception this time.”
Lena says, “You never said this to Noreen, or Dessie, no?”
“If they hadda asked me right,” Mrs. Duggan says, “I mighta, maybe. But they never thought to ask me at all. They think your sister’s the one that knows things now. I’m only some aul’ biddy that’s gone past her sell-by date.” She leans back, the chair creaking, her wide mouth stretching in a smile. “So I’m just sitting here at my ease and watching them all run mad. ’Tis nothing to me if Dessie wants to make a fool of himself. I’ll be gone soon enough. While I’m here, I’ll take what I can get.” She nods at the ashtray. “Empty that, on your way out. Don’t be getting it in with the recycling. Your sister does be awful fussy about that.”
Lena takes the ashtray into the kitchen and empties it into the bin. The kitchen is big and bright and ferociously clean, with rows of matching mugs hanging below the cupboards and a fruit-patterned oilcloth on the long table. On one wall is a whiteboard with a column for each of Noreen’s children, to keep track of training times and orthodontist appointments and who needs a new hurling stick. Lena writes “Do something nice for your mam” in each column, while she’s there.
—
“Well, Sunny Jim,” Mart says, as he and Cal head up the lane towards their homes, taking it at an easy pace to spare Mart’s joints. The sun is only just starting to gentle; it throws their shadows sharp and black onto the road, to leap up and flutter at their elbows along walls and hedges. “I’d say that went well.”
“Everyone seemed pretty happy,” Cal says. This was the part that startled him: the men’s spontaneous explosion of shouts and cheers when Rushborough held up the first glittering traces in the pan; the ring of genuine, wild amazement and delight, like they had all been holding their breath waiting to find out if anything was in there. The gold has taken on a reality outside themselves and their actions. They’re like believers exalted by the holy truth underlying a relic, even though they know the relic itself is a shard of chicken bone.
“I wasn’t banking on that,” Mart explains. “When you’re dealing with the likes of Johnny Reddy, you’d always allow for things going a bit arseways. But I’ll give the lad this much: there’s been none a that. Everything smooth as butter.”
“So far,” Cal says.
“So far,” Mart acknowledges. “I’ll tell you one thing that took me by surprise, but. I wasn’t reckoning on putting my whole day into this.” He tries to arch his back, and grimaces as it cracks. “I thought all you had to do was give the pan an aul’ shake and tip out the muck, and away you go to the next spot. I wasn’t bargaining for all that fussing and foostering. Standing still that length of time is grand for you and the rest of the spring chickens, but it’s a whole other kettle of fish for the likes of me.”
“You should’ve gone home,” Cal says. “Left me and the other spring chickens to it.”
“I coulda,” Mart concedes, “only there’s not enough action around here that I can afford to miss out on any. And besides, anyone that takes his eye off Johnny Reddy deserves whatever he gets.” He cracks his back again and suppresses a wince. “I’ll be grand, sure. Are you coming down to the celebrations? You can’t be skipping those, now. We can’t have Paddy Englishman wondering if something’s wrong.”
